John and Lisa's Blue Skies Blog – Soaring with God

Poetry inspired by time spent in the gardens at Richmond Hill this weekend:

amid rows of pine trees
we walked hand-in-hand,
safe under shady boughs –
specks of sunlight on needled ground.
peaceful, pine-scented air around
and copious opened cones at our feet;
no one to see, except God,
who had other plans for us both.

——————————————

tiny gurgling fountain ripples
round algae-green pond,
reflects October sun

fleeting bubbles float –
just water and air –
vibrant, then pleased
to melt into earth and God

——————————————

Green:
cool water, lily pads,
breeze-quivered stems,
my heart opens

Orange:
nose-to-nose golden fish,
slim bodies, billowing fins,
creation blooms

“How’d your day go?”

“Not bad, I’ve about got all the birds named. How ’bout yours?”

“OK. I went through the fruit section this afternoon.”

“Wait a minute. I thought we weren’t supposed to eat those.”

“Sammy snake said it was alright. Here, have a bite.”

Crrrunnnchhh.  “Whoa, wait a minute, what’s that thing between my legs?”

“I’m starting to feel all warm and sticky inside.”

“Let’s fuck.”

“How do we do that?”

————- “WHAT ARE YOU TWO TRYING TO DO??”

“OMG!!!!!”

A true guru will have you look inside you.

Since childhood, I’ve searched for You – amid rows of tall pine trees,
at the edge of vast oceans, near placid lakes,
at the foot of thousand-foot-high waterfalls,
even beside indoor fountains.

I’ve heard of people finding You on mountaintops or hidden in caves.
At night, You are the Light of the moon and stars. Why do You remain elusive?

Why do I sense I found You some other time? I have visions of nuns, monastic cells –
myself in the holy habit. Are they memories of the past, or merely wishful fantasies?
Is the sense of peace I feel real or imagined?

I know You dwell inside, not out there somewhere –
but why, my Beloved, do You hide?

Connected rows of puddles
on the roof below,
an unforeign language–
my mind whisked to deserts
and my soul disclosed

(This piece was published as untitled tanka at vox poetica, 5/26/13.)

I wrote this in one of Shonda Buchanan‘s poetry workshops at the HRW 4th Annual Writers’ Conference this past weekend:

All day, every day, I’m
tired of the rich and powerful getting everything their own way
tired of working my ass off just to pay bills
tired of being paid crap for doing work that makes a difference in people’s lives
tired of all the lying, cheating and stealing in our culture
tired of being tired
tired of watching poor people become poorer
tired of having ads shoved in my face
tired of endless wars and massive military spending
tired of being trapped within walls.
I long to live in a world that doesn’t make me tired.

My little vagabond yogini roams
from class to class in her cute little car
serving up sun salutations
out of a blue backpack
and leaving starfish hands all over Norfolk.

Contrails in the high skies;
Snail trails on the concrete –
Tomorrow’s my birthday.